


Six Months

by voksen



Series: WKverse [22]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Branding, Clone Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have no idea if kinky sex between six month out-of-vat magic bullshit science clones counts as underage or not, thus 'choose not to warn'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Months

_ October _

He is the first.

Behind him, a long line of failures, from half-formed lumps to the girl who forces her way out into the world, collapsing in a wet, naked puddle surrounded by broken glass.

They take her away, screaming silently, as he listens; they think of her as _Layla_ , of themselves discretely, and he begins to understand the concept of individuality.

It isn't long until he surmises that the other _self_ he knows isn't part of him at all, but a separate being. He waits a week to act on this, gathering himself, slowly walling everything away that is not him, and then reaches out:

 _Hello,_ he sends, the language programmed into him - into them both.

A pause:

 _Hello,_ the other thinks, slowly, dazedly, as if just waking from a long sleep. Directed at him, the word sears into his mind, and for the first time, Berger _wants._

 

 _ November _

The water drains around him and the various tubes retract; he sinks to the bottom of the tank, stands upright for the first time, balance coming as easy to him as language had, built in.

He knows what he is, though that sort of thing was not included in the programming: he's picked it from the minds of the technicians, from everyone who has come through to ogle them after Layla made her dramatic exit.

He knows he's _better_ than all of them by the sheer fact that they have built him to be so, and that they do not expect him to know anything of the sort; that they do not even know he is awake.

The glass goes dark as the water empties, leaving him standing in a glass cylinder, lit from above and below. Breathing is at once strange and natural, he finds, like the rest. Unfettered, he examines his hands, touches his hair.

When the wall of the tank swings open, he steps out unbidden, looking around at the small crowd of scientists.

He is naked and they are clothed, but it makes no difference.

"Where is Layla?" he asks them, his voice cutting through the excited conversation, quieting them. They stare at him dumbly until the silence is shattered by a rush of water splashing suddenly across the floor and the smell of fire.

He hears footsteps stumble around the corner, but doesn't look back just yet: the horrified expressions of the crowd in front of him, looking past him, are too fascinating.

 _I don't want to stay here alone,_ Geisel thinks furiously, but Berger is the only one who hears.

The other men start talking all at once in a frantic rush of sound as Geisel keeps coming, his footsteps echoing on wet tile, and Berger sees him for the first time, strangely muted, through a dozen eyes. He's shorter, broader, his hair brilliant blue - and the air around him shimmers with steam. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm goes off.

The pair of them are both thinking the same thing, their minds bound close together from their similarities, from days of constant communication, but when Geisel's hand lands on his arm, fire flares brilliant hot between them, the pain and sudden sensation hot enough to send Berger to his knees, the world graying out, then - nothingness.

 

 _ December _

Berger wakes some time later, flat on his back in a small, white-painted room, the cot he's lying in the only thing of any note. He sits, feeling his head roll, a deep ache starting somewhere behind his eyes, and only then notices how very quiet it is; there's the sound of his own breathing, but nothing else, no air, no mechanical whirr, and most disconcertingly, the ever-present murmur of thoughts is gone as well.

Before he can think too much on it, though, the door swings open and a girl steps in, a wide tray in her hands, all her attention on it. Sound rushes in as if it were filling a vaccuum: the light click of her shoes against tile, her concentration, fixed on incomprehensible numbers, drugs, and medicines, past her, drifting through the door, idle thoughts from a hundred other people. The door slams shut behind her, cutting the last with a horrible finality.

"Open the door," he says, his voice hoarse, and he's suddenly aware of how incredibly thirsty he is.

She jumps, almost dropping the tray, and backs up against the wall. "Oh!" she exclaims, looking at him, her eyes wide, her mind in a sudden panic: he's not supposed to be awake, she'll get in trouble, she has to tell the doctor.

Water, or some other clear liquid, sloshes out of a cup on the tray as she moves, and he can't take his eyes from it; his tongue feels as if it rasps in his mouth as he talks. "Give me the water and open the door."

The girl takes a step towards him, tentatively, the tray shaking. He doesn't understand quite why her mind is so full of horror and denial.

She drops the tray, squeaking, as the door swings open again; a tall man comes in, glancing between them, then to the tray on the floor, the glass shattered over the floor, pills scattered. "Welcome back, Herr Berger," he says.

 

 _ January _

They keep him caged up in that little room for far too long, past the point where he's sick of the blank white walls and the minds of the few people who come to see him, despite what they have to teach him. He knows a good deal of it already; it's basic information on who he is, what he can do - and he still hasn't told them that he was studying them while they were studying him.

The burns on his arm heal to a less-angry red, four of them curving in perfect lines; he touches them sometimes, unconsciously. It's no substitute for Geisel's thoughts, his constant presence, and he always stops himself when he notices he's doing it.

They never leave the door open long enough for Berger to find him.

 

 _ February _

Berger does not care for Rosenkreuz, even though (despite his natural ability and what little he's already been taught) he knows he has a lot to learn, so much more work to do to fulfill his potential. There are too many people, pressing around; too many eyes, too much curiosity as to who he is, how he looks so old and has only just been found, recruited. He sneers at them, keeps silent; he doesn't need or want their good will.

Because Geisel is there, too, tanned dark in a way you don't get in Austria in the winter, and Berger finds himself suddenly, furiously _jealous_ : Geisel is _his_ as Layla is his, and they took them both away from him. But he'll get them back - and this time, he'll keep them.

For some reason (he doubts it's chance), they seem to want to make it easy for him: when he gets to his assigned room at the end of the day, Geisel is there, lying on a worn-looking couch. He looks up when Berger comes in; his expression is carefully guarded, and Berger can't help but wonder what they've been telling him, what they've been teaching him, wherever it was they spirited him off to. He'll find out. Soon.

Reaching out to Geisel's mind, he finds him shielded; his teeth grit together seemingly of their own volition. "Geisel," he says, pointedly aloud.

"Berger."

 

 _ March _

A month later, the details of their origins are still secret, but everyone knows the pair of them are strange; still, the instructors don't try to split them up, so the students go along with it, grudgingly, staring behind their backs at their odd appearances, the way they never seem to be apart after that first long week. He hears some rumors he doesn't care about because none of them are true; Geisel, angrier, nearly burns one of the gossips to death, and Berger finds he has something of a taste for pain.

 _Burn me,_ he tells Geisel a few nights later, as they're sprawled in bed: they've slept together ever since that first week because Berger gets cold sleeping alone in the drafty room and Geisel likes to be close to him, touching if possible.

Geisel opens his eyes, blinks them owlishly at him. "What?"

Berger sits up, shoving the blankets off of himself and pushing his hair back over his shoulders. Geisel is still looking at him, confusion clear in his face, so he reaches down, takes his wrist, matches his fingers to the scars on his arm. They've talked about _that_ before, about how Geisel hadn't known what the fuck he was doing, about how Rosenkreuz was trying to use the events that "first meeting" as a grip on both of them. What they haven't talked about is the possibility of doing it again, on purpose. _Burn me_ , he repeats, and drops Geisel's hand in order to shove him over so he's lying on his back, straddling him.

The position makes Geisel's eyes go dark, hungry, rousing him from his sated sleepiness: Berger can read it clear in his mind, can see Geisel thinking about how he wants to fuck him. He might go along with it.

"Are you serious?" Geisel says, hands running up along Berger's thighs to his hips with incredible, tantalizing heat, on the edge of pain.

For answer, Berger reaches down, takes Geisel's cock in hand, strokes it slowly; he's already hard, but he gets stiffer under Berger's touch, and his mind, unshielded, is just as eager. "I'm serious."

Geisel licks his lips. "Where?" he asks, and it's sharp and hot in his mind that this is like marking Berger, like branding him.

"I don't care." Berger leans forward, grabs the lotion from the drawer by the side of his bed, slicks his fingers.

"Here?" Geisel says, reaching up, touching his fingertips lightly to Berger's chest, just over his ribs. "Or here?"

The hand left at his hip flares with heat, making Berger's breath come suddenly harsh, or maybe it's because he's fingering himself now, smearing lotion over his hole, inside. "Yeah," he says, and slicks the rest of the lotion on his hand wet and sloppy over Geisel's cock. "Yeah, there."

But Geisel doesn't, not yet, just waits, watching him with hungry eyes until Berger shifts upwards, sinks down onto his cock in a long, pained stretch, forcing himself wide open. The sex is a little awkward, neither of them exactly experts at it, but Geisel fucking loves it, and Berger shoves into his mind close as brothers, close as self, feels what he feels.

They come more or less together, Geisel a few heartbeats ahead of him, and it's while Berger is still shuddering with orgasm, come spilling out over Geisel's stomach, that Geisel calls the fire, leaves his handprint branded clear and burning-red on Berger's hip.

It takes another six months to heal, but he never regrets it.


End file.
